


Twenty-One

by Capriccio



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Community: kinkme_merlin, Identity Issues, M/M, POV Second Person, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-03
Updated: 2011-07-03
Packaged: 2017-10-21 00:05:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/218603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Capriccio/pseuds/Capriccio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not something that you're born with or something that you remember in pieces. You just wake up one day and remember everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twenty-One

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted in January 2010 [here](http://community.livejournal.com/kinkme_merlin/7746.html?thread=4760130#t4760130) for kinkme_merlin and the prompt: _Arthur/Merlin, Reincarnation fic with a twist. Arthur is the first to remember, instead of Merlin._
> 
> Also available on [livejournal](http://capricornucopia.livejournal.com/3914.html).

  
\---

You don't remember at first. It's not something that you're born with or something that you remember in pieces. You just wake up one day and remember _everything_.

More precisely, the day before your twenty-first birthday, you and your mates get pissed at the local pub. You stumble home somehow and then have the most amazing dream. You're not even sure it's a dream because of how vivid it is. Maybe it's not a dream at all—it's an entire life. You close your eyes and suddenly you're living the life of a king from birth to death. Every day of your past life flies past your eyelids, and when you wake up, you're King Arthur.

You're disoriented at first—the last thing you remember is a soothing darkness, and then you're jolted back awake. Suddenly, you're in a new body. Or is it old? Panic clutches at you because you're in the twenty-first century now, and then you remember that you've been living in it for the last twenty-one years. The dissonance prickles at you and you sit up in bed, trying to sort the pieces of you apart.

You're not sure how long you sit there until you hear a knock at your door. "Happy Birthday, dear," your mum says, stepping quietly into your room. You stare at her face, trying to see if she's your other mother, too, but you can't tell—you don't remember your other mother's face, and this mother's face is too familiar.

"Cheers, Mum," you manage before rubbing your head.

She clicks her tongue at you, saying with motherly affection, "You shouldn't have stayed out so late. I expect you have quite the hangover."

"Yeah," you admit sheepishly, but you can't even begin to blame the dream—the life—on alcohol because you've _lived_ it, and that much you know is true.

"I'll let you sleep in a bit more. I'll cook up some breakfast for you when you come down," she says, kissing you on the forehead, and leaves the room.

You get up from the bed after a while, trying your limbs out anew. It's strange, so strange, but it's nothing compared to when you make your way to the toilet and look in the mirror. It's your face, and it's Arthur's face, too. Not quite the same, but not quite different, either. You're still blond, blue-eyed, and fit. You touch your face, your jaw, trying to remember. Mirrors weren't prevalent in your old life, but there's something very strange about looking at your face and thinking that it's _wrong_. You're throwing up in the toilet almost before you realise you're doing it. You stay crouched there for a while, letting the porcelain cool your cheeks.

Eventually you make your way downstairs because you're still you, even if you're also Arthur. You almost trip down the stairs when you remember that your father—this father—might be someone you remember. He's reading a newspaper at the table, kind enough to wait for your appearance before tucking into his own breakfast of toast and tea. Your mum is, true to her word, frying eggs and sausages and loads of other good things in a pan that you wish you could stomach. "Morning, Dad," you say, and your voice sounds different, not the deep voice of the man you used to be.

Your dad puts away the paper and smiles at you. "Happy Birthday, son," he says, and gives you a light punch on the arm. You barely feel it because you're too busy trying to search for something familiar—a scar on his forehead, flashing eyes, the timbre of his voice, anything at all—in him. It's not there. "Something the matter?" he asks after a moment.

 _You're not who I thought you were,_ you want to say. _I'm not who I thought I am,_ you think might be a bit more fair. "Nothing, Dad," is what you say.

He chuckles and says, "I know that look," and your heart freezes. Maybe this was it. Maybe everyone woke up on their twenty-first birthday as someone else. Part of you thinks that this is ridiculous because how could no one have told you? Do they know something you don't? An icy fear creeps its way into your stomach—maybe for all this time, everyone has been waiting for you to remember, waiting for you to grow up and finally be the person you used to be.

Then your father is taking out a package that's wrapped gaily in red and gold. "Here you are," he says magnanimously, and hands you the present.

You fairly tear through the packaging, not sure what you'll find. _Answers_ , you hope.

It's a velvet box, heavy in your hands. You open it and inside is a pocket watch, one you remember from your very early days—this lifetime, not before. You recall touching it with grubby fingers while your grandfather showed you how to wind it. You suck in a breath because this is a gift, a real gift. Your grandfather had passed on a short time later, that memory the only clear one you had of him. You carefully open the golden hunter-case and run your thumb over the crystal, admire the numbers and the delicate hands. It comes with a heavy chain that slides through your fingers. You look at your dad and he's gazing at the watch fondly. "He wanted you to have it," he says in a choked voice.

"Thank you," you say, and he pats your shoulder.

"I know kids these days probably prefer something more modern to keep time, and I don't expect you to use it every day," he says. "But your old granddad was always fond of it and insisted I give it to you when you turned twenty-one."

Your head snaps up at that, wondering what he knew. If he knew. Your hand falls to the side of the watch and you wind it, slowly, carefully, just the way he showed you. It ticks immediately. _Tick-tick-tick._

Your dad grins at you. "I expect you to take good care of it," he says.

"I will," you promise. It's a little ironic, enough so that you double check to make sure that the watch isn't running backwards.

"Don't forget, your cousins are coming for dinner," your mum says, and places a steaming plate in front of you.

"No, Mum," you say. "I won't forget."

Your best mate knocks on your door an hour later when you're stuffed to the brim with a breakfast that you somehow managed to swallow and even enjoy. He grins at you. "How are you feeling?" he asks.

"Like rubbish," you say, and scratch at the stubble on your jaw. You remember a beard, scratchy even then, and a smooth, clean-shaven face of your younger past days. You laugh to yourself because you feel forty when you're half that. Maybe you've already lived half of your life. It's not a pleasant thought.

"Last night was a blast," he says. "Do you remember anything?"

 _I remember everything,_ you think. "A bit," you answer instead. "Did we get that pissed on your twenty-first?" you ask. You're sure that you sound like you're hedging for answers, because if anyone knows about how fucked up all this is, you're hoping it's him.

"Even more so," he says, and laughs loudly. "I don't remember turning twenty-one at all."

You wish you had that problem. You search his face, trying to find something familiar in it, just as you had searched your father's face. You ask a few more vague yet telling questions, but he doesn't understand, doesn't know what it means that he doesn't. There's nothing from him, and you're wondering if it's all in your head after all. Part of you is glad because you don't think you could handle the both of you being complete nuts. At least _he's_ normal. The other part aches for you not to be the only one. You start to wonder if you're being paranoid on top of everything else—that everyone knows but won't tell you until you tell them. Maybe you're cracked, maybe this life is a dream, maybe you'll go to bed tonight and when you wake up you'll be Arthur again.

You spend the family party looking like a fool. You have company in your best mate, who is trying out the new pick up lines he heard yesterday at the pub on your older female cousins to no avail. You, on the other hand, aren't much better off as you stare at your cousins' faces, trying to see some semblance of something, anything that you used to remember. Nothing looks familiar—everyone is familiar. You don't even know what familiar is anymore. You start to give up hope that anyone in your family is from of your old family and, in an attempt to not look too off your rocker, make funny faces at your littlest cousin while trying to match her with someone from your past.

"What are you doing?" she asks, wrinkling her nose at you.

"Wish I knew," you say, and then pick her up, squealing, to carry her to the buffet table.

It's a long party and you help your mum clean up, even though she insists it's your birthday and you don't have to lift a finger. You do it anyway because you tell yourself that it's nothing compared to facing down entire armies, but you really want to help your mum in this life because this time, you can.

After everything has been put away and is spic and span, you head up to your room. Your best mate is already there, snoring on the bed. You shove him over and lie awake, head aching, wondering if you'll dream again.

You don't dream that night, or the next, or the night after that. It takes you a week to stop analysing every face you see on the street.

"You're getting twitchy," your friends tell you. "What's the matter with you? It's like you're in another world," says another, and that gets you thinking. Perhaps you're not quite an alien, but there must be some explanation for this. No one else you've talked to has experienced the same thing, as far as you can tell—not that you have actually told anyone else. If it's one thing you're good at, it's internalising your problems. Maybe nothing much has changed after all.

You head to the local library and start a search on reincarnation, rebirth, re-anything. You're looking up a book when it hits you, and you almost laugh out loud at how stupid you've been. King Arthur. You should look up King Arthur.

This library doesn't have too much information on you—him—but you look up the nearest book anyway, and open the cover with shaking fingers. You begin to read, but nothing, if anything, sounds familiar. It's just as uninteresting and irrelevant to you as it was when you first heard the legend of King Arthur. _What does this have to do with me?_ you ask yourself. It's almost as if someone's written an unauthorised and poorly researched biography, the kind you see at bookstores or on tabloids with words like "Tell All!" or "Exclusive!" on them, but this time it's about you. You're puzzled. _This isn't me_ , you think.

Once you stop reading through your old eyes, there are some things that are right, of course, but other things that you think are completely ridiculous. You want to throw one book that says you were a raving lunatic against the wall. That's what you are now, not then. Maybe if the history books are wrong, you're remembering it wrong. Maybe you really are crazy and maybe you should be researching mental illnesses instead. You know that if someone told you that he woke up one day and remembered a life of legends, you'd think he was crazy, too.

You flip a page and see an illustration of an aged wizard in a pointy cap, and this time you do laugh out loud. Some other library patrons look up at you, annoyance crossing their faces. You ignore them.

Merlin. It's Merlin, but not as you remember him. He had larger ears, for one thing. With a startling bolt of clarity, you realise that you've been looking at the wrong people for answers. Maybe no one else you know has been reincarnated, but if there's one person from your past that you would bet has been, it's Merlin.

You jump up from your seat, grab your bookbag, and dash out the library. Merlin. You need to find Merlin.

You're halfway down the street when you realise you haven't the faintest idea of where to find him or where to start looking. What are the chances that he'll be that bloke across in the shop? You look at him just to make sure, but there's no ping of recognition. What are you going to do, look up "Merlin" in the phone book? You sit down on the dirty ground and cradle your head in your heads. You're tired of this, of searching for something that doesn't exist, for something you didn't know existed until a week ago. It's only been seven days and you're already falling to pieces. What if you spend the rest of your life searching for him?

Maybe it's Merlin who's supposed to find you. Until then, you'll just have to convince yourself that you're not crazy.

As luck would have it, you don't have to wait that long. A few weeks later, a spring breaks in your grandfather's pocket watch and your dad gives you an address to get it fixed. It's a watchmaker's shop, the owner a master at her craft, or so you're told. The watchmaker, her hair tied in a tight bun, purses her lips at you, as if wondering what a child like you is doing with such a masterpiece. She's wearing one of those magnifying watchmaker eyepieces on her head, and you wonder what else she sees with it. She bends her head to look at the watch and tells you not to touch anything while she appraises how long it will take to fix.

The shop bell tinkles and someone else comes into the shop. His wristwatch is dead, the newcomer says, yet again. He grins apologetically at the watchmaker who glares at him but cracks the first smile you've seen on her face since you entered the shop. You turn to look at him, and you know. His ears stick out a little less, his hair a bit longer, his cheekbones still as sharp, but you know it's him.

"Merlin," you say, and it takes you three tries to say it right.

He looks at you quizzically. "I'm sorry?" he says.

"Merlin," you say again, and your body moves without you telling it to, taking a step closer to him.

He retreats half a step. "Do I know you?"

"Don't be an idiot," you say. "It's me. Don't tell me you don't remember. What took you so bloody long to find me?"

Confusion etches his features and he holds up his hands disarmingly. "I think you have the wrong person," he says. "I'm not who you think I am."

The watchmaker looks up and between you, frowning.

"You—" you say, angrier than you remember being. _How can you not remember?_ you want to shout. _Are you just fucking with me?_ you want to say next. You want to push him up against the wall, cuff his head, bully him into telling you the answers like you used to—like Arthur used to. You're so damn tired of this, of having someone else in your head, of not being sure if you're you or Arthur anymore. The one person you counted on, the one that you thought you could count on in this life doesn't know who you are.

"I'm Arthur," you say with meaning, and the name is funny on your tongue. Certainly that's not your name in this life, and you've never said it out loud before. But maybe he'll remember it this way.

He just shakes his head and looks a little disconcerted. "Sorry, I don't think we've met before," he offers.

"You're Merlin," you say with emphasis, as if saying his name will make him remember.

"That's not my name," he says carefully, backing further away.

You willfully force your body from taking another step toward him. "How old are you?" you try next, desperate.

He frowns at you. "I don't think it's any of your business, but I'll be twenty in a few months. What does it matter?" he asks, guarded.

You bark out an ugly laugh. "So you don't remember. Not yet," you mutter.

"Sir, perhaps you should leave," the watchmaker says. "I don't stand for people harassing my customers."

"I'm not—" you start to say, and then give up. You don't want to start trouble, scare him off. You leave your name and number with the watchmaker. The bell tinkles once more as you leave.

Of course, you don't really leave, not without knowing where Merlin's headed. You stake him out at the coffee shop across the street, keeping your eyes trained on the watchmaker's shop. After about fifteen minutes, Merlin steps out of the store, glancing left and right, checking for you. He doesn't see you, though, and you slip quietly away from the coffee shop and follow him. You've never done this before, and you would feel like a complete creep if you had any room left in your head for logic. Merlin walks quickly, his long limbs making you increase your stride to keep him in sight. He turns a corner, you wait a beat, and follow him. You're surprised despite yourself to almost plow into him—he's ready and waiting for you.

"Why are you following me?" he demands. He's angry now, defensive.

You're not sure what to say. You haven't planned this. "I know who you are," you say.

"Funny, because I haven't a clue who you are," he says coolly. He looks ready to fight if you push him far enough, and your blood—Arthur's blood—hums for battle. This is what you remember about him.

"You're Merlin," you growl.

He laughs incredulously. "Are you drunk?" he asks.

"No," you say. "You're Merlin." Maybe if you say it enough times, he'll start to believe it. It hasn't worked for you not to believe it, but it's worth a shot.

"You're crazy," he says, and pushes past you and begins walking away.

"You have magic!" you shout.

He stops, but doesn't turn around.

"You move things with your mind. You, you say spells and things happen. Magical things. Beautiful things. That's what I remember," you say.

He turns around then, and your heart falls. He's looking at you with pity, with revulsion. "You need help," he says, and walks away.

"Wait! Just, just wait!" you shout. "When you turn twenty-one, you're going to remember, okay? And you're going to think you're crazy, but you're not, because I remember, too. And it's really fucked up, but I remember, too, all right? Where do you live?" you ask desperately. He stares at you, and you realise how you must sound and try and rephrase your question. "Whenever you turn twenty one, just...call me, all right? Do you have a mobile? Here's my number."

He makes no move to take out his mobile. "Goodbye, Arthur," he says, mockingly, and turns away.

You're getting tired of this and dart in front of him, blocking his path. "I swear, if you do this, if you keep my number, I'll stop bothering you," you say. "If you don't, I'll follow you. Anywhere you go, I'll follow you," and as you say it, you know it's true.

"How do you know I won't delete it as soon as I'm home?" he asks uncertainly. His eyes are flitting across the street, probably looking for a police officer or an escape route. He's humouring you, you know he is, but you'll take what you can get.

"You won't. You won't because you may not remember now, but you will," you say, hoping at least some part of it is true. "When you remember, I'll be waiting, all right?"

And you stare at him, waiting, until he pulls out his phone and enters in your number. You stay far enough away so that you're not in his personal space but close enough to make sure he does it, and does it right.

He walks off then, turning around every two seconds to make sure you're not following him. You stand there alone in the middle of the street and watch as he disappears from sight.

You quit checking your phone compulsively after another few months. You still keep it on day and night, though, and almost have a heart attack when your dad offers to switch you to a better plan and change your number. You turn him down.

You get on with your life. What are you going to do, anyway? Sit around waiting for a call that will never come? You've long since thought more about it. Maybe twenty-one was significant for you, for Arthur, but not for Merlin. Maybe he'll be a hundred by the time he remembers, what with the beard and all. Or maybe he's dead, killed in some accident, never have the chance to remember, and then you'll be all alone.

Maybe you were wrong and Merlin's immortal. Maybe you were just too eager and desperate to see someone that looked familiar that you jumped on that small sliver of chance. Maybe you're not Arthur at all. You still dream, but never of Arthur. The faces are starting to fade, but not the events. You don't read about yourself anymore, as if that could sound any more pretentious. You think about keeping a journal, trying to pull yourself back in time to remember your memories before they fade, but you can't bring yourself to do it. It would just be proof that you're crazy. You don't act like a king because you aren't, not this time. You don't even know which decisions and thoughts are yours anymore and which are Arthur's. Life, as you've found out before this, is hard enough without the memories of someone else mixed up in your head, much less a king of old.

You keep the pocket watch in perfect condition. You look at it often and think of Merlin. Sometimes you even clip it to your belt, tuck it into your pocket, and let the weight hang down. You don't tell yourself that it reminds you of a sword that you used to hang there.

All things considered, life is pretty normal even after you remember. The thing that bothers you the most is that you're not sure what you're supposed to be saving your people from, what you're supposed to be in this lifetime. Politician? Peace activist? A scientist that discovers a cure for cancer? None of these really appeal to you, and you think that maybe if you had remembered as soon as you were born, it would be easier. Maybe this isn't the first time you've been reborn, and then you wince at the thought, because maybe in all those lifetimes before, you've never accomplished what you were supposed to do. The next thought after that is maybe this is the first time you've been reborn, and if you fuck it up, the world is doomed. Or maybe this time, you get to be normal.

You want Merlin.

You know that you could go to the watchmaker's shop again, see if his watch still breaks every month. You could find him if you really wanted to, but you don't. If he hasn't remembered yet, you don't want to be the one to give him those memories again. You remember living as Arthur, but you also remember dying as him, too, and all the choices you had to make. You remember things you don't want to and things you never want to forget, but it's all starting to blur. Most of the time, you wish you didn't remember at all—not unless it's with Merlin. Still, you want to save him that little bit of time where he doesn't have to remember until he does. You wish you had the same option.

Your phone rings one day long after you stopped counting the seconds. It's winter and cold and your fingers fumble when you try to answer it. You don't recognise the number, but you answer it anyway. "Hello?" you say.

There's silence, and it stretches out. "Hello?" you try again. Something makes your heart start beating wildly.

"Arthur?" a voice says, tentative. "God, I can't believe I'm actually—" the voice says, and cuts out.

"Merlin!" you practically shout into the phone. "Merlin!"

There's no answer.

You grimly call the number last received and wait as the other line rings.

\---

//end


End file.
